


Goddess Below

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, I write Peter Hale for the sole purpose of doing horrible things to him, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Omega Verse, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Vestal Virgins, dark but not, really really dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter sneaks into the vestal temple looking for a virgin. He finds Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddess Below

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how to begin to warn for this one. Okay? See tags. Thank you to the lovely people who enabled this mischief on tumblr. *kisses*

The goddess’s temple sits on the sacred mountain top overlooking the valley of Vesta. As Peter has heard tell, the stone temple is breathtaking in every way imaginable. Like teeth, its walls are virgin white in the volcano’s dormant mouth. Sunshine chews rainbows in the moat’s mists while the surrounding slopes are slime bright with spring buds. The only stain of vermilion is the western turret, likely from the garderobes. Even precious omegas have to shit.

Heaving himself up on a rock ledge, Peter pulls out his map. The scroll cost him a small fortune, but it’s proved what he’s known to be true: all bodies have a backdoor. The temple’s secret entrance is before him on the western cliff face. It was built as an escape route, which means it’s always open.

After cracking flint over oiled rags, Peter lights a torch and enters. The path does not lead, as he supposed, to the interior of the temple. Rather as Peter pushes through violet swaths of bougainvillea, the tunnel’s moss walk changes to clover carpet. The air thickens with hyacinth and feathery pollen while a high harmony cards the breeze. The thrum of a harp plays over the trickled gush of a waterfall.

Peter follows the song’s lure, skulking over moss until he has the musician in his sights. It is one of the children, a virgin, an omega. Peter ducks behind a boulder and observes. The omega’s eyes are closed. Chestnut hair coasts the cowl of a white robe. Long, slender fingers flutter across crystal strings. For a harp piece, the song is dark, Peter thinks, but either way, there’s no mistaking the talent of the young man. At the crescendo, the omega’s hands move improbably faster. A flush climbs the rose hued cheeks while perspiration sugars his hairline.

Oh, and then there’s the smell. Goddess almighty, the _power_ in it. Have you ever shot a prize buck? It’s that feeling but skunked with honey and licked with salt. It’s meaty, like you want to stick your chin into its depths. Peter finds himself leaning forward before he even realizes what he’s doing—he immediately jerks back. 

A male, no matter how fair, serves him no purpose. Peter needs a female. One of high rank. She gets the bite and he gets her kingdom. Rules are rules. Only... it doesn't work that way with male omegas. Peter has never paid that much attention, but the little he knows is that rank takes precedence. Besides, the prize Peter really wants is the scion of the Argent clan. Nothing would make him happier than looking King Christoff Argent in the face with the knowledge that he’d knotted his daughter. Nothing. And in Peter’s dreams, Argent’s horror almost makes up for the razing of the Hale lands. The smell of smoke he can’t forget. The blood…

Almost.

Still Peter’s not expecting it when the omega’s fingers still. Nose in the air, he wheels on his chair, and before Peter can duck, the omega is staring right at him with wide eyes. For a second, his eyelashes flutter like raven’s wings, but then he bows his head and smiles in greeting. "Hello."

The voice is so soft and filled with such wonder that Peter drops his shoulders and smiles back. He leans forward, both hands splayed on the rock and says, "I enjoyed your playing."

The omega hides his smile in the fold of his cowl. "Are you lost?"

"Am I?"

The omega swings his legs around his bench. "You don’t smell like an initiate. And you’re not one of the temple’s priestesses."

Could he be more innocent? Goddess above, his eyes are golden in the late noon shine. "My name is Peter. Tell me your name."

"Stiles."

Peter frowns. "Of Stilinsky." Stilinsky is a small kingdom in the northwestern highlands. Peter knows little about their holdings except that the weather in highlands is abominably cold and therefore completely unsuitable to his purposes. "It’s terrible, how they take you all away so young. You were four? five?"

Stiles’s head falls to his shoulder as his brow crinkles. "I don’t remember. It’s not so bad here. We have music and lessons, and we are all such friends."

By "we" he means the other omegas. "Oh and where are your friends?"

For the first time, Stiles’s smile falters. "Through the porticus." He waves his hand at the waterfall. "Though you can’t go through. It’s blocked right now."

Peter decides to do his own inspection. He walks to the pond’s edge where flowered lily pads choke the pebbled store. He’s squatting down to touch when he hears Stiles’s fearful "No!" Unfortunately, the warning comes too late. The water that sears across his finger tip is not water. It’s acid.

Peter has collapsed backward, the pain temporarily blinding him, when—not fingers—but a mouth presses against his wound. He’s not prepared for the tongue that slides across his knuckles and licks upward. Nor is Peter ready for the instantaneous relief that comes with the contact. With a moan, Peter gives his whole finger over to Stiles.

As the stinging ebbs, Peter looks up to see Stiles with his mouth bobbing up and down on his finger. There’s no artifice in his expression, only a brow lined with worry and eyes that watch Peter with such care.

Peter, on the contrary, has an erection that’s competing with his scabbard. He hates erections. A year ago, if he were in his own castle, he’d call his chamber attendant. Part of the boy’s job was keeping slick and ready so that, at the clink of the bell, Peter could have him on his hands and knees before the hearth. Zero fuss. Peter could push right in. It was further insult when Peter found that Kate had slit the boy’s throat. That had been personal. Meanwhile, Peter is called out of his reverie by Stiles’s saying, "You need the blessing to pass."

"And how do I get this blessing?" Peter asks, still staring at the boy’s lips. Mercy, they’re petal pink.

Stiles sinks back, fingering the drape of his cowl. "I don’t think they’d let you have it."

"Oh, why’s that?"

Stiles’s lips press and he looks at Peter with too large eyes. "You smell different."

It’s the pheromones. They’re all reacting to the omega’s presence. And Peter knows he should probably back off, but instead he says, "How do I smell?"

"Nice." The tone could not be more demure.

Peter does not hesitate as he presses forward. Though his breath hitches, Stiles does not withdraw as Peter noses into the corner of his neck and draws in his scent. So close, the omega’s potion pours saliva into Peter’s mouth. His gums itch. Stiles’s skin is tender perfection except for a tiny brown mole. For a second, Peter considers biting it off. He pulls back with his lips dammed over his teeth. Between his legs, his sack pulses with pain.

"Are you—?" Stiles’s hand is over his lips. His robe is wrinkled. Right now, slightly disheveled, he looks delectable, but were he to be debauched—

Peter smashes a fist into the grass. "You smell good, too. I’m sorry if I was forward."

"Oh. You weren’t, um…" A slight bob of his Adam’s apple. "...forward."

"Why are you out here," Peter presses, "separated from your friends?"

Stiles pulls his arms about himself. "Oh, I’m…" He grimaces. "...I was asked to take time for contemplation."

His tone is so heavy. "Did you break a rule?"

Stiles’s lips form a line as he nods. "I was only curious. The others had done it, but because I’m a," he takes a breath, "a _boy_ , they say I’m to be held to a higher standard."

"What did you do?" At Stiles’s demurred shake of the head, Peter adds, "It’s okay. I understand. I’m a boy, too."

That catches the boy’s interest. "I thought you might be, but I didn’t want to say."

"You can say. Just like you can tell me what the others did."

"Oh," Stiles’s face falls again, "it was just a token of affection. We pressed lips. It’s why I’m left with only my harp for the day."

"Lips?" Peter brushes his fingers against his own, though internally, his heart pounds. This one is curious. He’s resentful. He’s all alone. And he’s so ripe, like a peach waiting to be plucked. That’s when Peter starts thinking, if he can exercise control, there’s no reason not to try him. Goddess below, Peter could probably knot him and the precious boy wouldn’t even protest. Or he might protest a little. The heat rises in Peter’s chest and he’s wondering what his whimpers would sound like.

Stiles meanwhile is pouting heavily. "Yes, lips. Lydia put her lips to Allison, and then Lydia said Allison should lip me so I could know. Allison was doing it wrong, Lydia said, so she took over, and that’s when the priestess found us and said I had to go through the porticus for the rest of the day because I was to know better than to ‘slop my dinner instrument into other omegas.’ I think she is most unfair."

"She seems to be." Peter makes sure to nod most gravely. "...and your friend, Allison. I think I might know her family. Is she of the Argents?"

Stiles’s whole face brightens. "Yes. She is. Oh, you should meet her when she comes at sundown to collect me. News is so rare here. Letters take months. She’d welcome whatever you might tell her."

Welcome, indeed. "She’ll come through the portcullis?" Peter checks.

"She’s blessed, so do not worry." With unflinching eyes, Stiles presses his hand over Peter’s burnt finger.

Sundown is an hour or so away, Peter has time to kill and a pretty omega to play with. "Did you like it, what Lydia did with her lips?" He keeps his voice soft, curious. "Was it nice?"

"It was—" Stiles pauses. "It was not objectionable but I think it was a bit strange. I didn’t mind the taste of berries from her breakfast, but it was—" He shifts his weight. "—wet."

"I have pressed lips before," Peter says. "It’s normal to be wet."

"You have?"

Peter laughs. "Yes."

"And you still liked it?"

"I did."

"Oh." Stiles shift his weight again and Peter doesn’t miss the flick of his eyes toward Peter’s lips.

"It takes practice."

"Practice?" Now Stiles is openly staring.

"Like this," Peter whispers, and it’s so easy—so painfully, simplistically easy—to fold his own cracked lips over the omega’s soft silk. At the parting, at the opening, at the tipping of their tongues, Peter feels a surge in his blood. It would be so natural to smash Stiles down, to rend his robe down the middle, and to bite him into heat. But Peter needs control for himself as much as Stiles, so he teases as much as he takes. He hums and steeps in the pure, sensual flavors of this untouched boy.

It’s a shock when Stiles is the one to jerk back. Eyes wide, he licks his lips saying, "Oh." A breath. "Oh."

"What...?" Peter starts when he realizes that Stiles’s free hand is pulling his robe across his lap.

Oh sweet boy.

Peter does the opposite of what Stiles is doing. He grabs at the front end of his tunic and lifts the leather to reveal his own arousal.

"Oh." Stiles stares with wide eyes. He bends forward, licking his lips. "It’s so big."

Besides the advantages of a pleasing scent and unfailing fertility, Peter had never really understood the fuss that other alphas make at having an omega. Now, however, he is starting to understand the appeal. "Is it?" Peter asks.

Stiles nods, looking down at his robe. "Mine is half as big."

"It’s probably nicer looking than mine." It has to be, given that knots, no matter how specific in their purpose, are lacking in aesthetics. Peter doesn’t even know if male omegas have knots. Betas males have small ones. But for male omegas, would there even be a purpose? Peter finds himself wanting to know firsthand. "Here," he says, undoing the laces on the front of his breeches. "I’ll show you mine."

Relieving the strain on his pants is its own pleasure, but there’s also the way Stiles’s eyes bulge. His nostrils are flared as he draws near, and Peter takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way that Stiles’s smell brightens. Each breath of air fills his mind like a vintage.

"It’s different," Stiles pronounces with a nod. "But still nice."

Peter presses another kiss. "For practice," he assures, before asking, "Might I see yours?"

"I don’t have breeches," Stiles says. At Peter’s shrug, Stiles reaches between the folds of his robes, undoes the clasp, and then the entire garment is falling open; at once there is so much creamy skin. Peter doesn't know where to start, the soft buds at the top or the sleek bumps of his abdomen or even the apple swell of his ass—but then of course, there’s his erection, and as Peter expected, it is the color of pink melon, a perfect handful. There is a knot, though at present, it’s barely bigger than a bean.

At Peter’s touch, Stiles lets out a soft gasp. A line divides his brow, so Peter says, "I just wanted to see," even as he circles the soft bulge, the skin giving at the push of his finger. Stiles' eyes have only just rolled back when Peter bends forward to kiss him again, says, "lots more practice," and grips Stiles in his hand.

He is rewarded with an abrupt moan as he rubs his finger over the top slit, and then begins to pump in earnest. "What are you—?" Stiles starts but he’s cut off by another gasp as his teeth snap shut and he falls back on his elbows.

Not stopping in his efforts, Peter says, "It’s just something I like. Don’t you ever…?"

"No. I’ve never—"

"How strange," Peter murmurs, wondering what the put in the water around here (besides acid). As he increases the pace in his jerking, Stiles’s feet kick. "Is this all right?"

Stiles’s eyes are squeezed shut he nods, dark lashes winking up and down.

"Lie back," Peter commands.

Like the perfect being he is, Stiles falls back to his elbows, long neck arched, and as his knees widen, Peter can finally see it: the soft pink pucker that marks his entrance. It’s glistening, already leaking, and it’s so perfectly pale and unmarked in any way. It’s not even swollen, just wet and sweet. Peter wants his cock in it yesterday. Unfortunately, he’s sure that doing so will result in a total loss of control that will end with him biting the pretty piece of ass before him, and while that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world—clearly—Peter has grander schemes on the agenda today.

"You’re wet down here." Peter uses his free hand to trace the ring.

Stiles shivers. "That happens."

"Mine doesn’t look like this." When Stiles only moans, Peter feels for the sides of the crevice and begins to push.

That has Stiles launching forward. "Oh, what are—what—?"

So Peter replaces the jerks of his hand with the heat of his mouth, sucking in the whole of Stiles's length. And then Stiles isn't talking. Breaths are seething through his teeth. He cranes forward. Back. A pretty moan shakes him. It’s as Stiles slumps like honey that Peter pushes the finger in all the way.

As he continues to suck, Stiles gyrates, ass twisting clockwise then counter-clockwise around Peter’s knuckle. His eyes are wide one second, slammed shut the next. He is all limbs and shakes. His chest is flushed and small starbursts shine at his temples. He might be the most beautiful creature that Peter has ever seen. Even his pretty little cock tastes good—not that Peter’s in the habit of putting dicks in his mouth—but the salt and bitters are balanced by the sweet persimmon of his skin.

He can tell when Stiles is close. So close. He pops off of him, kissing a trail up the fine hair that crooks about his navel. He sucks a nipple. Stiles giggles at that. Gasps. And it’s when Peter gets to his neck, sucking a bruise into the side, that Stiles truly goes wild. Goddess, Peter thinks, he’s an inch from heat fever—then again, by the threat of the throbbing in his own breeches, Peter is too. He has to pin Stiles arms so that he can get to his lips again. This time the kiss is all suck, no give. Stiles’s spit slicked erection is hot against Peter’s own. Peter only pulls back to say, "You’re so wet down there. So open."

Stiles breathing is still so fast. "I want—I need—"

To come so bad that it hurts? Peter can relate. "Yes, can I try something? Can I?" Peter pulls back to grip himself. He pointedly rubs the head against Stiles’s hole. "Like that."

Stiles blinks before blustering, "Will it fit?"

"I think so," Peter answers honestly. "It might be tight." He knows it will be tight. He wants it to be tight.

"You can try," Stiles says, and he smiles at Peter. It’s so genuinely beautiful that he finds himself kissing the boy again. Then he’s ignoring the boy’s mouth for his neck. He sucks hard just under his jaw, skips with the edge of his teeth, and then Stiles is writhing, jerking his hips into Peter’s while Peter gets the angle just perfect, takes a quick second to swirl his tip in the damp, and then pushes into him.

The pressure is intense. There are layers, soft membranes. Stiles is small, soft; Peter is large, hard. Beneath him, Stiles has frozen. As Peter watches, his mouth falls open—only for his teeth to slam shut. His eyes roll back. When Peter gives another push, Stiles looses a low whimper.

"You feel like heaven," Peter murmurs through strained vocal chords.

Stiles’s mouth opens, but Peter kisses it shut. Then being fully seated, Peter gives his first thrust.

Beneath him, Stiles quivers. His bottom lip is trembling. His erection is half-wilted. The corners of his eyes are shining. But when Peter pulls back to lick at the teardrops, Stiles does not push him away. Nor does he speak. Instead, the corners of his mouth turn up, like he’s trying to smile, and when Peter hefts his ass, pulling his legs over his shoulder so that he can fuck him in earnest, Stiles’s only question is, "Are you okay?"

Peter fucks him harder.

And just like he wanted, Stiles’s hair is in all directions. His robe is grass stained, muddy, and twisted. Peter’s bruises and nibbles have transformed the pale perfection with marks of triumph, and best of all, there’s the sight of his own cock, knot still blooming, hammering in and out of Stiles’s now strawberry-colored hole. Peter memorizes all of it.

When he knows he’s getting close, he pulls out so he can lie Stiles completely flat again—better to take it all. Stiles makes a soft yelp when Peter pushes back in, but then Peter has a hand back on Stiles’s dick. He’s jerking him even as his thrusts become shallower. Stiles is hard and leaking in Peter’s hand even as Stiles suddenly tenses. "What is—?" Stiles gasps.

"My knot. I think it’s swelling." Peter bears down as yes, it tightens them together.

"It hurts," Stiles whispers, biting his bottom lip. "I need…"

Instinct makes him arch his neck. Peter, staring down at the white column, hates that it is so damn enticing. All he would need to do is sink his teeth. Then he could have this over and over again. And Peter’s not just thinking about the heats. Goddess below, Stiles would be a such a willing student. Peter could teach him new ways to use his mouth. Stiles would look good tied up, bent over the chapel pew, as Peter drove cries from him. And then there’s the fact that Peter could breed him—there’s the knowledge that Peter could be breeding him even now—he could get heirs out from his beautiful belly. Only, that would mean a bite and—

Peter almost loses his thin tether of control when his orgasm hits. The knot swells, the pain rises with the pleasure, and Peter feels the rush of saliva into his mouth. He has to grind his teeth as his body quakes. His fingers dig into the mud and a warm seeping hits his stomach as Stiles comes along with him.

In the moment, Peter Hale is perfectly content. He survived—he didn’t give the bite—and—

His rush of thoughts is cut off by four heavy clinks. Cold metal weights his wrists and ankles. Peter looks up to see two girls—two female omegas—both holding crossbows. They’re not glaring at Peter, though. They’re casting daggers at Stiles.

"Him?" the red-haired one demands.

Stiles turns from the girl to Peter with a smile that is so wise, so knowing that Peter’s whole chest turns to ice. "Lord Hale," Stiles murmurs, and he presses a quick peck to Peter’s nose, "you have been a very very bad boy."

"Have I?" Peter looks down to where they are still knotted.

"You were supposed to bite me," Stiles says.

"But I didn’t," Peter snaps—and they can’t make him.

"Yes," Stiles hums, "But I’m going to let you in on a little secret. You’re not the first alpha to wonder in our back door, and there’s a reason they let the male omega guard it."

"Oh," Peter spits, "did you let them fuck you too?"

"No." Stiles grins. "Normally when they go to the porticus, I push the idiots into the water—I don’t suckle their finger."

Peter blinks.

"But you… your kingdom borders mine at the perfect point. Right at the mountain’s pass. Plus," Stiles crosses his arms over his head, "I like your resume. You’re a good general."

"You’re not convincing me. I’m not going to bite you—and you can’t make me."

Stiles’s lips tighten. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. "Ah, but that’s the reason they let me guard the gate." He leans in close to whisper, "You don’t have to bite me. That’s the thing about male omegas. We can bite you."

Peter has only just registered those words and started to thrash—the knot stings—when teeth connect below his jaw. In the minutes after, Peter has the memory of Stiles wiping red from his lips. He has the image of the two female omegas chanting a blessing. He hears Stiles say, "And I wasn’t wrong, he has a really nice cock, right?"

Peter thinks that last one is met with agreement.

.

Months Later

Peter storms into the antechamber, sees Stiles, and snaps, "I hate you." He sits down in the chair and starts pulling out the laces on his boots.

"Hate, I can handle. It means you want me." Stiles, dressed in the cobalt of his own kingdom, walks over and right in between Peter’s legs. "Indifference would be intolerable."

"I am indifferent," Peter mutters, but his body betrays him completely as Stiles starts in on Peter’s breeches and expertly plucks him out.

Because his spouse is an utter, uncultured harlot, Stiles hefts his robes to display a total lack of undergarments and then with Peter in hand, sinks down upon him. (Peter only chokes a little.) "We won." Stiles bites hard at Peter’s bottom lip.

Head swimming, Peter nods, getting a grip on Stiles’s ass. "Deucalion’s men were in the pass as you said. We flanked them with little trouble. Our archers sent them running while our cavalry mowed them down. At the moment, the deposed ruler is in our dungeon. I told him chicken was being served tonight." Peter grunts as Stiles slams down in an approving way. "Possibly cold, though. Everything is fucking cold up here."

Stiles face is flush as he smiles. "We shall send a strongly worded note to Ennis tomorrow. If he doesn’t bow, I will have his head on a platter next Tuesday."

"He’ll bow." Peter grabs Stiles hips and speeds them.

"You’re not going to touch me at all, are you?" Stiles is only half pouting.

"I hate you." Peter is getting close. It’s been weeks since he last had this.

"Do you?" Stiles is smiling like the sun.

Dear Lord, Peter loves him—not that he would ever confess. (Stiles would use it against him. He _already does_ even without Peter ever murmuring a word.) "And how are you still childless?" Peter mutters because he’s pretty sure Stiles and those goddamn witches at the temple have special herbs.

Peter is expecting a, "fuck you" or an "after we’ve conquered Nemeton" what he’s not expecting is for Stiles to sink down hard on Peter’s knot and say, "We’ll need the campaign done by the solstice. She’ll be due then."

Even as his head is foggy from the release, Peter is somehow able to put that together. "She?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "An alpha."

"I hate you," Peter says again, and this time he says it with his hands cupping Stiles’s face; he’s sinking into the dark depths of his eyes. Peter kisses him slowly. "Thank you for not pushing me into the pool."

"I only reconsider it sometimes," Stiles whispers back. And it’s with an evil sort of grin that he licks the bite mark on Peter’s neck.  
 


End file.
